There are radical changes going on at my house: Now you can get
into the upstairs bathroom by going through my bedroom closet.
There are radical changes going on at my house: Now you can get into the upstairs bathroom by going through my bedroom closet.
Let me explain.
Some time last week, the caulking in the shower got tired of being taken for granted and decided to, ha-ha, let all of the water seep out through the wall and into, you guessed it, the closet.
Once I was over the shock of my entire wardrobe being wet, I did what any naïve, panic-stricken person would do: I called my friendly home insurance company.
Now I want to just stop here a minute and say that I have nothing against insurance companies. In fact, mine has always been embarrassingly generous with things like maps and colorful stickers and theme park discounts.
When I called them they seemed very glad to hear from me. They listened sympathetically while I told them all about the water and the caulking and the fate of my cardboard shoe tree and all that. When I finished they gently assured me that “an adjuster” would get back to me as soon as possible to handle my claim.
I hung up the phone fantasizing about teams of eager workman rapidly repairing my upstairs closet and laying my brand new, top of the line, off-white, plush Berber carpet.
Then I called my friend Julie to tell her my good news.
“You did WHAT?” She said. “Everybody knows that you can’t report claims to your insurance company. What were you thinking?”
“Well, I …”
“Now you’ll have a RECORD.” She went on. “You’ll have a high risk house.”
Everyone knows that having a record is something not to be taken lightly. I mean, bad drivers have records. Convicted felons have records. Now apparently, even houses that are standing, still minding their own business, have records.
And don’t think for a minute that you can keep it a secret. For years, possibly centuries, prospective homebuyers, strangers and nosey insurance companies will be able to access your house’s record and find out exactly what kind of shoddy dump you’re running. And it’s not like you can go off one morning to a special Negligent Home Owners school and get your transgression removed either.
Call me naïve, but I still had some hope left when the insurance adjuster, who I’ll call Janice, came to my house to survey the damage. I took her upstairs and pointed to the giant hole in the back of my closet, which my husband created while trying to find the source of the leak.
Our conversation went something like this.
Me: I was thinking of a new carpet in Berber preferably beige.
Janice: That sounds nice, but the carpet isn’t covered.
Me: Oh, okay. How about the wall then?
Janice: Nope.
Me: The floor?
Janice: No.
Me: The caulking? The paint? My shoe tree?
Janice: Uh, no.
“What, exactly is covered then?” I finally asked.
“Well, fire damage is covered,” she said brightly. And I thought I heard her add, “Only if it’s started on a Tuesday by a group of feral squirrels accidentally rubbing two sticks and a walnut together.” But I could have been imagining this last part.
Debbie Farmer is a humorist and mother holding down the fort in California. You can contact Debbie at
fe******@fa********.com
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